


Fragile

by Autar



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celebrimbor's Life is a Tragedy, Even Mandos agrees, Gen, he deserves better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23438257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autar/pseuds/Autar
Summary: Celebrimbor came to the Halls of Mandos bruised and bloody.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	Fragile

Celebrimbor came to the Halls of Mandos bruised and bloody.

Usually, a soul would kneel before Námo in its best state; formal clothes, jewelries, smooth skin, slick and neatly braided hair, and all that. But it seemed like Celebrimbor’s fëa had forgotten how its best state looks like. The only form it remembered now was that of a broken prisoner; torn pants and bare chest, decorated with bruises and cuts, dried blood smeared in many places. Still, it mattered not to Námo.

“Celebrimbor,” he softly called, embracing the fëa as gentle as he could.

The fëa was unresponsive, back hunched as he knelt, empty eyes staring straight at the ground.

Námo tried again. “Tyelpë,” he called.

This time, it got him a reaction.

Celebrimbor jerked, harshly, like he was being slapped into wakefulness. And with that, a piece of his fëa fell to the floor and broke apart like glass. With it, came the sound of a child’s laughter, echoed once and faded away entirely from the halls. Mandos sighed sadly.

There goes a memory even he could not retrieve. That piece was forever lost to Celebrimbor now. And it was a childhood memory nonetheless, a happy one. If the elf lost all of it, Námo feared he couldn’t bring him back to his old self.

Celebrimbor was staring at him now and those eyes were not entirely empty. There was defiance there, along with acceptance. There was also pride, but it was fake and more like a mocking gesture. Those emotions were etched firmly into his eyes they looked like empty at the first glance. Celebrimbor was forever mocking his captor, daring to hurt him more while letting all part of himself go numb, letting them be broken beyond repair.

It was the most brilliant form of defiance Námo had ever seen. And even though the victory was small, Celebrimbor had won it.

But the other parts couldn’t lie. Even though his face was forever mocking, his body was trembling uncontrollably in fear. And more fragments of his fëa started to peel off.

Celebrimbor was too fragile.

With a sweep of his hand, Námo turned Celebrimbor from his adult form to a child. The fragments merged together again and the elf—now dressed in white shirt and pants, though the bruises and the dirt and the dried blood were still there—went limp. Námo caught him before he hit the floor and cradled him gently in his arms.

The surface memories of a child were mostly that of a happy times, it made Námo easier to control the fragments from falling off. But it wouldn’t last long. Celebrimbor was too weak to even maintain his own form. His fëa longed to be scattered in the wind, lost forever, refusing to take form again, remembering all the gruesome torture his hröa had endured. He wanted to disappear.

For a broken soul like this, Námo usually let it go. But he couldn’t grant Celebrimbor this. The elf deserved better. He didn’t deserve this fate. For once—just this one time—Námo wanted to give him a chance to experience happiness.

He wasn’t too late to be saved. Námo could brought him back, even though he could not do it alone. He learned that, for the children of Ilúvatar, all the cure for a broken fëa could only be found in the presence of its kin.

Fëanor—along with his sons—were like fire. All of them. Even Maglor who loved to sing and was known to be the calmest. But Celebrimbor was no fire. He was gentle and kind. He shared instead of hoard. He didn’t want power. He just wanted peace. Námo wondered how such a kind soul could be related with fire after all.

But still, they had to do. Fëanor and his sons had to quench their fire if they had any hope to heal Celebrimbor back, or else they would burn the fragile fëa down.

It was a feeling. But this kind of feeling was never wrong.

Somehow, Námo was very sure they could do it.


End file.
